The Blonde Man In the Park
by BJArthur
Summary: The first time John saw Sherlock was not the first time Sherlock saw John. first BBCSH fic. completed.
1. Chapter 1

first Sherlock fic. SH-POV, and hopefully a believable self-diagnosed sociopath. i'm a big fan of the BBC version and ACD's adventures, so i hope i did them justice. also - i've never been to London, much less the UK as a whole, so any information about London i've made up. there is a 256 Field Hospital just outside of London, and it is about 30 from St. Bart's, but i don't know about their Wounded Warrior care. that might be an American thing. and for the bakery on King Edward Street? no clue. also, edits have been largely in thanks to **Howlynn**, who has made me think of a few things i hadn't before.

* * *

Everyday at 1:30 pm, the blonde man would take a walk around the park in front of St. Bart's. Sherlock had first spotted him one month ago, hobbling along the winding path, leaning a bit too much on the metal cane he used. Sherlock hadn't thought much of him then, the limping man in the park, but the more he saw the man, the more he wondered.

He was a handsome man, if a bit ordinary looking. Well muscled (standard military procedure?); upright, almost marching way of moving about (military confirmed); fond of jumpers (oatmeal, deep blue, soft red) but also wore a jacket over top (not used to the cold?); kind but haggard face (seen a lot of action, then, and a lot of lives lost); determined looking (mind of his own, not military-issue and always a plus). Loud noises didn't startle him, but the man made a habit of running a cursory eye over the tops of buildings and looking behind him from time to time (post-traumatic stress?). Sherlock couldn't determine what colour his eyes were – he was careful to never get that close – but the man was tanner than most Londoners. Military, not used to the cold yet, seen a lot of recent action, tan: the man must be a soldier back from Afghanistan or Iraq.

Sherlock was living in a tiny apartment near the hospital then, only three blocks away. It was cramped and the neighbours on all sides complained about the noises and smells and Sherlock had just gotten another letter of notice from the landlord. The landlord would never actually give Sherlock the boot – the money was good (more than the other tenants) and consistent – but the letters were an annoyance all the same. Around the time Sherlock had started seeing the blonde man, he had determined to change domiciles. The man in the park – recently _discharged_ from the military, if his bearing (ranking officer?) and injury (had been shot… somewhere, possibly left leg) were anything to go on (they were) – was most likely staying in the temporary housing units for injured military personal on the other side of London. Sherlock's guess was near the 256 Field Hospital. It had the best Wounded Warrior care, and the man was both wounded and a warrior (if he wasn't a warrior, he wouldn't have been wounded). Sherlock wondered why the blonde man would take the 30 minute 'Tube ride into the city just for a walk. He also wondered if the blonde man would be interested in living (with a flatmate) a bit closer to the city. A city that he apparently knew.

The man did not seem as if he were simply wandering. He seemed to know where he was going and what he wanted to do. A native of London, then, or at least lived here before he was shipped off. Specifically, lived near St. Bart's. The man appeared to know a great deal about the area. Sherlock had followed him one afternoon when he had nothing better to do (Lestrade had no cases; Mycroft was keeping his fat nose blissfully to himself). The baker on King Edward Street knew the blonde man by name. Sherlock did not get close enough to hear what they said, but the familiarity was obvious. Shop keeper's face lit up in pleasant surprise; blonde man smiled back, also pleased; a brief hug was exchanged; awkward gestures to the right shoulder, cane and left leg; a look of caring distress crossing the shop keeper's face before pushing a large strawberry jam tart into the blonde man's free hand and not accepting any form of payment. Sherlock went in and bought one just to see; it wasn't that bad, but not what he would have gotten for himself normally (blueberry muffin precisely the size of his fist). A discussion with the baker and a quick scan of the clientele revealed that medical students frequented the place. So the blonde man had most likely been a medical student. Military _doctor_, then.

Sherlock needed a doctor, one of his very own. Not to cure any ailments he might catch (he never did) or to patch him up after a scuffle with a suspect (which happened surprisingly often), but more often than not he needed one to confirm forensics for him. Lestrade's team was if-y at best and stroppy at worst and Sherlock simply didn't have the time to stroke stupid men's egos. When there was a case, Sherlock needed to focus and solve the puzzle, not listen to Anderson whinge about how nobody loved him or some such nonsense (Sally didn't – they just screwed whenever Anderson's wife was out of town). So when Sherlock figured out that the blonde man from the park was a military doctor, he determined to have him.

Military – used to action, thinking quickly on his feet, fast reflexes, a man of honour. Doctor – full of useful medical information, a man of science, understands the need to preform experiments and get all the facts before making a diagnosis. Combined with Sherlock's natural brilliance, he was certain that they could solve practically anything.

The man was injured (limping wounded warrior, after all), but Sherlock wasn't too sure that was so much of a problem. He would need more data in order to determine the validity of that injury – the limp looked too forced, but not a complete lie. Possibly psychosomatic? There were a number of therapists in the area and it wouldn't be a stretch to say that the man took a walk after each session. Figuring the incompetence of the therapists, Sherlock wouldn't blame him for needing a walk after an hour spent with one of them. Any assistant of Sherlock's would need to keep up with him, so if the limp wasn't in fact psychosomatic (he really hoped it was) then Sherlock would need to research physical therapy to get his doctor (for that's what the blonde man would become: Sherlock's) into top shape.

A month after first spying the blonde man in the park, Sherlock had just finalised the lease on a flat being let by a former client of his – sweet old woman, Mrs Hudson – when Mike Stamford wandered into the labs one evening. While Sherlock fiddled with a microscope and slides (if he looked busy enough, maybe Mike would leave) the medical professional blathered on about his students (dull) and how dumb they were (wasn't everyone?) and how much he needed a break from them. Sherlock let a small smirk slid across his face. Mike actually might prove useful after all.

Mike – though mostly stupid, fat and very lazy – was a notorious fixer. If given a personal problem, he'd somehow find the answer for you. Sherlock would use him more often if but for the fact that Dr Stamford was entirely too weak-willed. In addition to needing a doctor, Sherlock also needed someone who might take care of the things he needed – like getting milk or straightening the finances or dashing about London. Mike would do those things but not only would he need to be _told_ to do them, he wouldn't put up much of a fight about it either. This made Mike incredibly dull; not someone Sherlock would want to work with, quite frankly. The fact that he was married and had a child on the way certainly didn't help. But Mike _was_ about the same age as the blonde man, had gone to school at St. Bart's like the blonde man most likely had. The classes at St. Bart's were kept small, so chances were that they had known each other. This was just the plant Sherlock needed.

"Why don't you go for a walk tomorrow, then?" Sherlock suggested, keeping his voice even and bored. "Weather's supposed to be nice and you could probably go for an airing out."

"Yeah…" Mike thought for a moment. "Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." (_Of course it was, you imbecile._) "I think I'll do just that."

Sherlock also knew that Mike was ridiculously easy to steer. It was one of the reasons why he'd never been considered for the position of Sherlock's doctor/assistant. Being over-weight was another reason: he'd never keep up with Sherlock.

"How is your wife, by the way? Found a job yet? I know you've been having mortgage troubles."

"Tiffany's good – found a position at a local hairdresser's. I'd ask how you knew about the mortgage, but well… anyway, it's just one of the joys of having your own place."

"Hmm…. I'm actually moving out of my place. There's a flat on Baker Street I've been looking at, but it's a bit pricy."

"Have you thought about a flat share?"

Sherlock's grin practically split his face and he was glad that he back was to Stamford. He was silent for a moment, straightening out his face and levelling his voice.

"Who would possibly want to share a flat with me?"

So what did Mike bring him the very next day after lunch? The blonde man from the park – a Dr John H. Watson, formerly Cpt Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He had a mind of his own, dark blue eyes that were at times both hard and soft, a taste for adventure and strawberry jam, and a thankfully psychosomatic limp. John might not have been exactly what Sherlock had been expecting, but John was _his_ doctor and he was perfect.

* * *

so this hasn't technically been beta'd or BritPick'd (just in case you couldn't tell). if someone would like to go through and catch all the nasty little mistakes (there's probably tons more i haven't seen), feel free to PM me. i also hope the parentheticals haven't been too much. other than that, please review and Believe In Sherlock. :)


	2. Chapter 2

oh boy. over done, well beaten horse. but it's such a pretty horse that i had to try my hand. great big special thanks to **howlynn** for helping me with this idea and pointing out things for me. i think that qualifies as beta reading, at least seeing the first version. i struggle with writing in passive voice, so be ware i probably haven't caught all those spots.

* * *

John came in from work around 1:30pm that afternoon. He had planned on working the full day shift at Sarah's GP, but when he got in that morning she told him to take the afternoon off. She had said that he'd been working harder than she'd ever seen and deserved a bit of a holiday. Well, after living more than a year with one of the world's most genius men, John knew what Sarah was really saying.

"John, you've been working so hard. Have you thought about a holiday? Why don't you take the afternoon for yourself today."

That was what Sarah had said. What she actually meant was:

"John, I'm getting tired of seeing you mope about. It's spring, for pity's sake; take the afternoon and liven up."

Livening up was a bit hard when you weren't sure if you were supposed to be mourning or not.

It had been three months since Sherlock… went away (not dead, couldn't be, John couldn't even think it). Eighteen months living with the man and a three-month separation was driving poor John to distraction. He still hadn't come to terms with the fact that his best friend, that the bright and bollocks-y man that was (had been) Sherlock Holmes, was removed forever (maybe). His therapist was still making him talk, making him say things that John patently could not believe to be true. Like the fact that Sherlock was… not coming back.

But it didn't make sense. That was one thing John kept coming back to: Sherlock's jump didn't make sense. Well, no – the jump made sense (in some backwards kind of way that John wasn't too sure of yet). The landing didn't. There was something wrong with the body, wrong with the injuries John saw before he collapsed, wrong with the blood spatter. There was something wrong in the way that John hadn't been allowed back into the morgue. As a medical professional, John knew that something was off, that something about that landing was not adding up. He just didn't know what it was. His therapist said he was in the 'denial' stage of grief; John said his therapist was reaching.

It had been just March when Sherlock… left (March – in like lion, right?). It was May now, with spring showers pouring down enough rain to make John feel less like a nutcase for missing his friend so much. And when it wasn't raining, it was misting – flowers blooming like bright sun-spots of colour in an otherwise grey world. Except for today: the weatherman had failed to predict that it would be annoyingly sunny and warm today.

For the most part, John liked to think it was difficult for the average person to tell that he was broken. He was a doctor; he knew the signs of depression. John also knew how to avoid showing them. He got up every morning (from nightmares, usually), had tea and read the paper, went to work. He didn't drink too much (echoes of Harry's habits still rang too loud), he still managed to smile at his patients, his limp hadn't returned. He wasn't interested in sex much, but that was because his best friend had… well, he was allowed not to be interested in girls. It was his right to choose not to date much if he didn't want to. His left hand shook, but only when he wasn't doing anything. John had also turned off his blog, but only because there wasn't anything to blog about, not any more. He did not go and hang about Sherlock's gravestone whenever he had the time. Sherlock wasn't there, whether John believed in heaven or Sherlock being a miracle worker. It was just that one time after the funeral to say his (hopefully not) last words to his best friend. That was it. But just because the average person couldn't tell didn't mean that John still wasn't broken.

John had withdrawn from his former life. This was as much a defence tactic as a sign of mourning. He'd had found an apartment on the other side of the Thames about two weeks after Sherlock had… gone missing from his life. It was close enough that he could see Mrs Hudson if he wanted to, but far enough away that he wasn't so haunted by memories. He and Mrs Hudson met for tea sometimes, but the visits were never long and were never – ever – near Baker Street.

Staying in Baker Street was it's own special brand of torture. Every inch reminded John of Sherlock. He kept expecting random body-parts to show up in the fridge, or for Sherlock's chemistry set to burn through the kitchen table (again). And it wasn't just the memories – it was as if the ghost of Sherlock himself were haunting him. While still at Baker Street, the sound of violin music floated around John's bedroom at night, even though there was no one there to play it. Sherlock's voice wandered around the room, complaining on crap telly, being bored, random people on the street being stupid or dull. The presence of him hung over John like a spectre, telling him he had the morning's crossword puzzle wrong or that he needed to take more cases. It was the chemical smell in the kitchen, the faint staleness of cigarettes, the scent of whatever it was that Sherlock put in his hair in the mornings. It was he wallpaper, the smiley-face, the bullet holes; the skull, the nothing to blog about, the experiments; the silence that burned in every corner of 221B Baker Street until all John wanted to do was scream to make it go away. John had to move out.

His new place was empty and small. There was no skull, no body parts, and no hair-product lingering in the air. It was thankfully void of memories and phantoms.

Except when John dreamed, but he had no control over that. Everything ran together in his dreams, all the things John so avidly wished to forget. John worked himself hard so that at night he was so exhausted from the clinic that he just passed out, too tired to dream. Which was why Sarah had given him the afternoon off.

John's new apartment was also a good distance from the Met so he was never tempted to actually go in and punch Anderson's stupid, insipid face or Sally's hateful, bitter poison-spewing mouth. Punching people was not an appropriate response, though; John was trying to _avoid_ interactions with the NSY, not seek them out. Part of John also wanted to punch Lestrade, even though he knew it wasn't entirely the Detective Inspector's fault. Lestrade had always believed in Sherlock, even when he was doing a 'drugs bust' or some nonsense. This didn't make John want to avoid him any less. The DI made it a habit to call whenever he had a really interesting case, or when he had free time. John didn't want to take a case – not without Sherlock. John didn't want to go for a pint. What John wanted was to work and not be reminded of the one person who was missing from his life. Lestrade's calls had tapered down after awhile, though John had a feeling that a 'drugs bust' was coming his way soon. John tried to tell himself that it was Lestrade's way of saying that he cared, but the doctor just ended up angry. Which made him want to hit someone. So he avoided Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John was also avoiding Molly and Mycroft, though neither had stopped trying to contact him. Molly left messages on his phone and blog and with Mrs Hudson. They were always chippy and cheerful, trying to draw him out and get him involved again. She had tried to catch him at the GP, but John always made sure to be extra busy. John didn't want to be chippy or cheerful, and certainly did not want to be drawn out.

Mycroft made all the random phones ring whenever John went for a walk and had a large black car tail him at odd hours (it wasn't kidnapping if John willing got in the car, but John wouldn't willingly get in that car ever again). Mycroft had sent the pretty Anthea (most of the time), two rather large thugs (a few times), had even tried knocking on the apartment door himself (twice), but John was either not home, 'not home,' or far too busy to come to the door (read also: making tea, reading the paper and avoiding the windows so as not to be seen). And when Mycroft's minions weren't banging on John's door, the man himself was flooding John's text inbox.

TO: John W.

220 Baker St. 1:00pm -MH

TO: John W.

You missed our appointment. I assume you are at home. -MH

TO: John W.

You cannot hide in your apartment forever, John. -MH

TO: John W.

We wouldn't have to do this if you would simply get in the car. -MH

TO: John W.

Could be dangerous. -MH

TO: Mycroft Holmes

Don't you ever say that to me ever again. -JW

That, by far, wasn't the last of the texts John received from Mycroft. But at least the man hadn't repeated his brother to John.

But this afternoon, this oddly sunny and warm afternoon in May (t-shirt, light blazer, no jumper) (no soft, blue scarf), John came home at 1:30pm. He tossed his keys and wallet onto the side table in the front hall and turned into the kitchen, intent on getting toast with butter and strawberry jam. As he shrugged his blazer off and went to hang it over his (only) kitchen chair, John noticed three things. His chair was not where he had left it that morning – he had pushed it in under the table and now it was missing. The bread was sitting next to the toaster, rather than in the closed breadbox where it belonged. John was a military man and used to tidying up; things were instinctively put in the places where they belonged. Even eighteen months living with the messiest, most forgetful man on the planet had not broken John of his habitual tidying – if anything, the habit had been fostered. So John was a creature of habit – he had put the bread away that morning.

The last thing was baffling. A small glass jar of strawberry jam, obviously new and never opened, with a small red bow around it. Placed next to the bread on the counter like a present, waiting for John to come home and find it.

John, leaving his blazer on the table, picked the jar up and tested its weight in his hand. If attacked, he could use it as a bludgeon and cause some damage if he needed to. Abandoning the thought of toast, John walked slowly towards the hall. He avoided all the creaks in the floorboards as he made his way to the small den. The room was dark and cool; John kept the curtains drawn – he didn't want to see the sun or the flowers or even the rain. He paused in the open doorway, hand tightening around the small jam jar, when a lamp clicked on.

In the only other chair John owned – the large over-stuffed one he'd drug out of 221B – sat a thin man. His features were shadowed, but John knew him anyway. No one else sat with their hands steepled under their chin just so, no one had legs that long or hair that curled exactly that way. The chair from the kitchen had been positioned in front of him, like he was expecting a client – no, not a client. Like he was expecting John.

"No," John croaked, his voice getting stuck. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No, you're not here. This isn't happening – this is a dream." He said this calmly, evenly, as if he had said this to himself a thousand times before (he had, just not in this context). The man in the chair took a deep, slow breath and let it out carefully.

"If you like," he said. He gestured to the kitchen chair. "Please sit. I have things to tell you."

John's body jolted like it suddenly remembered how to move and he staggered forward, falling sideways into the hard, wooden chair.

"What… what is going on?"

"If you'd like to think of this as a dream, John," the man across from him said, "I won't stop you. But I have things I need to tell you, and you have things you need to hear me say. After that, we can discuss whether or not I'm a figment of your imagination."

"This is…" John trailed off, bringing a hand up to scrub at his face. He was still holding the jar of jam. "This whole day has been… unreal. Sarah and my patients and it is _way_ too warm outside for London in May – it was supposed to rain all day and it's sunny out, _sunny_ – and now the bread and the chair and the jam! What's with the jam? You never bought me jam; I never wanted you to buy me jam. If this is a dream, _why_ did you buy me jam? Why are we sitting in the dark? When I dream of you, it's always out in the desert or at St. Bart's or at Baker Street. We're never sitting in my dinky little flat in the dark. So how are you here, and why are we sitting in the dark, and what's with the _jam_?"

Stunned silence followed, settling over them before the man cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"You like strawberry jam," he said. His voice, though deep and even, carried a note of insecurity. "I've known that about you since before we met, John."

"What?"

The man shifted forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees, moving out of the small sphere of orange light glowing from the lamp. Even in the darkness, John could see the gleaming silver eyes he knew as well as his own.

"I am going to tell you a story, John, and I want you to listen. When I am through, you may ask any questions you like, but I need uninterrupted silence from you while I tell you this story. Do you think you can do that?"

'_This is a dream_,' John rationalised. '_It must be. There's no way this would be happening in real life._'

As if to prove him wrong, his hand tightened on the jar he held. It was warmer now than when he had first picked it up, and it's weight solid in his hand.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'll listen."

The man nodded and sat back again, hands coming once more into position under his chin.

"It started twenty two months ago with a blonde man in a park…"

And so John listened. John listened to Sherlock talking about 1:30pm limps through the park in front of St. Bart's. He listened about Sherlock's neighbours (dull) and the letters of complaint (annoying) from his old landlord (also dull). He listened to the first deductions Sherlock ever made about him (military; jumpers; Afghanistan or Iraq). He heard about Sherlock's sneaking and peeking and about Mr Toby's Bakery (where the jam came from) on King Edward. He heard about the flat share idea and the limp that was also simply an idea (thankfully). He listened to how easy it was to manipulate poor Mike Stamford into introducing them (fat, stupid, lazy – but awfully useful sometimes). He heard Sherlock say that he was pleasantly surprised not only by how well John fit Sherlock's initial idea of him, but also by how exactly John had differed. By the end of it, John felt both flattered and like a fool.

On the one hand, Sherlock had found him interesting before they had even properly met. He had sought John out, crafted everything just so that they would meet. This genius, wonderful man had wanted to meet _John_, had wanted to get closer to him. Sure, at the time it was so that he could use John for his medical knowledge and need for order. But Sherlock had himself admitted that had changed when they first actually met face-to-face.

On the other hand, Sherlock had manipulated and spied and… generally acted like Sherlock. John couldn't say he was surprised, exactly, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. Sherlock had followed him around, studied him like an experiment or a case. He had viewed John as an object to obtain rather than a person, an individual. That was insulting, and a little hurtful. But knowing Sherlock as he did, it wasn't out of character. People weren't people to Sherlock; they were either annoyances or conveniences, depending on their over-all usefulness.

"And now?" Everything seemed to hinge on Sherlock's answer.

Sherlock sighed and continued his story. He spoke of valour and adventure (no one before was like John, and certainly no one after). Sherlock told John about how he was constantly surprised by the doctor's resourcefulness (the gun; the pictures of symbols; the providing of milk). John was constantly breaking and re-breaking the mould Sherlock had fashioned and re-fashioned around him. Sherlock went on about the language they had developed, of looks and nods and 'A Bit Not Good' for when Sherlock was being exceptionally rude (more often than John should have put up with). In his own clinical way, Sherlock broke down every interaction he and John ever had and what he had deduced from it.

Sherlock talked about how since meeting John he had felt real and deep emotions (inconvenient yet somehow fulfilling). He felt genuine fear for another's safety when John had a bomb strapped to his chest; he felt genuine fear for himself while they were looking for a fake monster on the moors. Sherlock told John about the very real, very strange attraction he had felt for Irene Adler – and the very real, very strong disgust he had felt when he realised that she was exactly like himself. While she was still intriguing (her brain, after all, had only been paralleled by Sherlock and Moriarty), Sherlock would never want her as his partner (for anything) because they were such similar creatures. It would be like putting two Japanese Fighting Fish in a tank and asking them to play nice – they'd kill each other anyway.

Sherlock then spoke of Moriarty and Richard Brook and the sniper Sebastian Moran. He spoke of death threats and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and most importantly, John. And how Molly – sweet Molly, kind Molly, invisible Molly – had helped Sherlock fool everyone. Molly, who had been tasked with looking after John while Sherlock was away; Molly, who was thoroughly annoyed that John was making that one simple task so completely difficult by both running away and ignoring her, but far too… _Molly_ to actually say anything to John about it.

Sherlock concluded his tale by telling John that most of Moriarty's web of crime had been disassembled, only Moran remaining. He spoke of the murder of a man named Adair and a plan he had to capture Moran.

"But I do need you, John," he finished.

John sat silent for some time, processing everything that Sherlock had told him. In fact, he was silent for so long that Sherlock began to worry.

"John?"

The jar of jam suddenly felt heavy in John's hand and with startling clarity, he knew exactly what he needed to do to resolve this.

"I owe you," John said slowly. "I owe you my life in more ways than one. I'm not quite sure I really believed you to be dead. Some things just didn't add up. I guess I owe you that, too – I don't think I would have noticed them otherwise."

With an abrupt jerk, the jar thunked soundly against Sherlock's forehead.

"John," Sherlock exclaimed, shocked. One hand came up to the swelling bump on his head. "Why did you -?"

"Arrrghhh!" John launched himself at his old flatmate before he could finish. "You stupid, selfish, bloody bollocksy man!" John screamed, throttling the taller man, dragging him out of the chair and on to the floor. "How could you do that to me? You fucking wanker! I find out that you ever plan on doing anything so bloody fucking stupid ever again, I don't care whose lives are at stake – I'll kill you myself!"

The two men rolled across the floor, each trying to find purchase and leverage for the upper hand. The kitchen chair was bumped into and toppled over as they grappled in the dim light of the room.

"John! You were a military officer! You're abov- ow! You bit me!"

"I'll skin you, is what I'll do. Every day – every damn day for THREE MONTHS – with the nightmares and the therapist and working so hard! I was exhausted all the time! Do you know how that felt?"

"John!" Sherlock planted a knee into John's solar plexus and rolled, trapping John's wrists on to the floor and shoving his whole weight onto the smaller man. "John, you must calm down. Stop it!" John, panting and crying and looking utterly destroyed, looked up at him. "Moran was going to kill you, John. If given the chance, I'd do it over exactly the same. And you would too, if you'd been in my place; I know you would. I will not be without my blogger, John. I need your help with this, but you must stop fighting me." Sherlock waited a moment, watching John's eyes to see if he'd try to launch himself at Sherlock again. When he found the calm he was looking for, Sherlock got up and helped John off the floor.

"I'm not apologizing," John said, sounding a bit more like a sulky child than he liked.

"Well I'm not either."

A beat of silence.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Move back into our flat, for a start."

"Will you be there?"

"Not at first, but Moran needs to see you there."

"So I'm to be bait, then?"

"Essentially. Moran's in the flat across the street from ours – he needs to see you in it."

"And where will you be?"

"Behind Moran with your Browning."

John sighed and shook his head.

"Just get him before he kills either of us, okay?"

* * *

i know, i know - the punching thing. everyone does the John-punches-Sherlock thing when they write a reunion-fic. and you may be thinking 'why only three months, BJ? why not three years, like canon says?' well, this is the 21st century, not the 19th. things happen quicker now - information transfer, travel... we have the internet. so yeah. it shouldn't take three years, i don't think. especially not if you're Sherlock Holmes. anyway, if you spot anything that's glaringly horrible, please PM me. otherwise, feel free to review and Believe In Sherlock. :)


	3. Chapter 3

so, semi-sad fact: i can't seem to write chronologically. also semi-sad: this chapter has only been kind of beta'd. **howlynn**, who has lovingly goosed my blind bovine behind into fixing glaringly obvious errors that i couldn't see, has been able to grab my head and go "BJ, you sweet stupid girl, what on earth are you thinking!" and that was because me writing Mycroft was like a wet fart in church - just no good. i have (hopefully) fixed the fart, but any other errors in there are mine and mine alone.

anyway, i should also probably mention that i don't actually own any of these characters. i had forgotten to say that i bow to the powers of SirACD(c?), Moffat, Gatiss (whose Mycroft is _not_ a wet fart), and Thompson in the last two chapters. so thank you, you wonderful men, for creating something new for me to play with.

* * *

Someone had once told Mycroft that he only saw the forest and never the trees. When asked to clarify, the person (a girl from his seventh form class) had sighed and looked at him sadly.

"You only see the big picture, Mycroft. You never see the people who make that picture. It'll be okay for whatever they put you up to in the government, but you'll lose so many more people who care about you that way."

Mycroft, not surprisingly, sneered. "If there are people in the picture, then I'll see them when I look at it." The girl had shaken her head.

"That's not what I mean. But I don't think it's something I can explain to you, My. You'll have to figure it out yourself."

Mycroft had brushed the comment off at the time. Seventh form was an emotional year for many young people. And as a female, the girl was most likely experiencing some sort of hormone imbalance to begin with. Her crush on Mycroft was glaringly obvious (longing looks, longing sighs, writing their names together in her daily diary) and it seemed like she wanted him to actually _learn_ something from her overly-emotional and extremely naïve words. As if this poor seventh form girl could possibly teach _Mycroft Holmes_ anything. Dull little thing had shortened his name, for heaven's sake; he was a Holmes – no one shortened his name.

It wasn't until now that Mycroft understood what his peer (he couldn't even remember her name) had meant.

It was a stupid thing that he had done, trading information about Sherlock to a madman for state secrets. Mycroft had done the right thing for Queen and country – it was of the utmost importance that the British Government know what exactly that babbling Irish lunatic knew and what he intended to do with that knowledge. And Moriarty had asked the simplest of questions.

"What is Sherlock's favourite colour?"

"What does Sherlock like to do in his free time?"

"What did the other students think of Sherlock when he was at school?"

"How did Sherlock get into drugs?"

It all seemed very inconsequential to Mycroft. He didn't see how Sherlock being teased by stupid children in primary school had any bearing on national security. So Sherlock likes the colour red even though blue looks better on him; that had nothing to do with the codes and plans that Moriarty held. But Mycroft had missed the most important parts of that exchange – mainly two very important trees.

The information on Sherlock (shockingly inconsequential, shockingly _intimate_) had been used against the young man. The playground bullying had led to drug abuse and a sense of self-importance; a narcissistic view had him doing anything he thought would make him look good, even avoiding wearing his favourite colour. Mycroft didn't quite know what had happened on top of the roof of St. Bart's (the CCTV had only been able to record from a distance), but Moriarty had ruined his brother. And Mycroft had to watch as it destroyed both a great man whom he loved and a good man, one of the last honestly good men Mycroft knew.

John Watson would do anything for Mycroft's brother, so Mycroft would do anything for John Watson (whether the doctor knew it or not). However strained Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship (he was responsible for this brilliant boy, so brilliant Mycroft couldn't even understand him most of the time), Mycroft did care for his brother and only wanted him to be protected and happy. John Watson delivered on both where Mycroft was unable to.

What kind of repayment was this, then: causing the worst sort of suffering for a good man, a man who did everything for Sherlock that Mycroft could not? John Watson was a war hero – both in the desert and on the streets of London – and he deserved better than his all-consuming grief. Grief that was based on a lie that Mycroft had pushed into existence. John deserved to know that his best friend, a man whom he loved in his own way, was alive and coming back to him. But Mycroft had painted Sherlock into a corner (three innocent people for the assumed life of one), so the younger Holmes was stuck until Moriarty's net was destroyed. Only Sherlock knew how long that would take.

Mycroft had made a mess of things and he would make very certain to never make this same mistake again. He would help his brother as much as Sherlock asked, but Mycroft knew enough that Sherlock needed to be the one taking point on this. This left Mycroft feeling like he was floundering a bit (_he_ was the eldest, _he_ should have been in charge), but what else could he do? Sherlock needed to know that the threat to John Watson was removed completely and the only way he could trust that was if he did it himself. So Mycroft made himself take a back seat in this. At least for the most part; there was that reporter woman to take care of. And oh, did he have plans for her.

One afternoon a little over a month after Sherlock had jumped off St. Bart's, Mycroft's Intel told him that John Watson was sitting on a bench in the park across from the hospital. According to the CCTV, the blonde man was just sitting in the park drinking coffee, fiddling with the soft blue scarf around his neck. This would be the perfect time for Mycroft to go and say… something. Anything. There had to be something adequate, something appropriate to say in situations like this. He couldn't think of much, though.

"I apologize for how the betrayal of my brother has affected you, Dr Watson," seemed most unsatisfactory given the breadth of the blonde man's sorrow. According to the surveillance provided, John Watson had withdrawn entirely from his life prior to Sherlock's jump. He had moved out of the flat he had shared with Sherlock and did not interact with any persons outside of his work environment. He was not sleeping much and only ate when absolutely necessary. He clung to the blue scarf when he thought no one was looking. The good doctor wasn't responding to Mycroft's calls or texts or any other form of contact (and not just from Mycroft – one Molly Hooper and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade were similarly being ignored).

But now the man was by himself, out in the open. It was practically an invitation. Mycroft might not be very sure what there was to say, but social morays demanded he say something and Mycroft was never one to let an opportunity light this pass him by.

Kora (formerly Anthea, Gaia, Hera and Calliope) followed him out the door and into the car.

"I don't think you should talk to him, sir," she told him unprompted, eyes glued to her BlackBerry screen.

"And why would that be?"

"He's grieving, sir. You'd remind him of everything he's just lost and the wound is still too raw."

Mycroft sat back against the leather interior of his car. He let out a dismissive snort and twirled his umbrella for a moment. His assistant/bodyguard/keeper (his own version of John Watson) was right; he knew that. He also hated it. Mycroft so wanted to fill the strange void he felt inside himself, the one he had felt since he realized what Moriarty was going to do and how powerless he was to stop it.

"Speak to the good doctor, Kora; see how he's fairing. I expect a full report upon your return."

"Yes sir."

Once they reached the park, the chauffeur pulled to a slow, smooth stop and Kora (Calliope, Hera, Gaia, Anthea) slid out of the car. The BlackBerry disappeared into a coat pocket as she moved towards the park bench. She sat down next to John silently and waited for him to make the first move. She didn't have to wait very long.

"I'm not getting in that car," he told her, his voice level and determined. His hand was fisted around the bottom edge of the scarf around his neck.

"I wasn't going to ask you to." John Watson and Mycroft Holmes in close quarters so soon after Sherlock's presumed death? Very bad idea.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Checking up on a friend."

"Not your friend," John corrected, suddenly very angry. Kora decided to try her hand at a joke; maybe she'd coax a smile out of him.

"Fine. On behalf of a very concerned and interested party, I'm here to determine the state of your wellbeing." She turned to look at his profile. "Is that Holmes-y enough for you?"

"You'll have to shove one more stick up your backside if you wanted to sound like your boss."

Kora smiled, glad to see a grin teasing around the edges of the man's mouth. According to the past month's surveillance, it was the closest thing John Watson had come to an actual laugh in quite some time.

"Probably." She studied John a moment, taking in the bags under his eyes, the sad lines around his mouth once the grin faded. He was holding himself stiff and ready like he was expecting to jump up and run at a moment's notice. Kora remembered a program she had seen as a child, one where a man had shouted 'you'll never take me alive, copper!' and waved a gun around before dashing off. John reminded her of that man, tense and prime for a fight. "You're staring at the spot where he fell," she observed.

"Can't seem to help it," he admitted, his voice tight. "We met at that hospital; I guess it's only right that we ended there, too."

"It's not right," she told him. "It'll never be right, something like that." Kora wholly disagreed with the idea of keeping Sherlock's survival from John, though she'd never directly say so. It wasn't her place.

"You're not the first person to tell me that, or even the most qualified."

"Doesn't make it any less true."

They fell into silence again, just sitting there watching the front of the hospital. There wasn't much going on – a few nurses taking a smoking break, some doctors heading out for lunch, a trolley-man delivering flowers, families and friends and patients going in and out. It was like they didn't know, didn't care that lives had been shattered on that walkway. All of them were simply walking over where Sherlock's blood had spilled, where John had collapsed on the sidewalk.

"It doesn't really makes sense," John said after a while. "Some of the things that happened right after he…"

"After Sherlock fell?"

"Yeah." John couldn't say it. He didn't think he'd ever be able to. "I don't know why – maybe because it's _him_, you know – but I feel like I'm missing something. Something that would make all of this… more bearable. Somehow."

Kora took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Let me know if you ever find that more bearable something. I think my employer could use it, too." She stood up and, in an odd and almost motherly gesture, ran a hand over John's blonde head. He jolted under her hand; she had never touched him before. "You're a good man, John. You deserve better than this. I'm sure I'll be seeing you soon."

"Yeah." John's voice was subdued as she walked back to the sleek, black limo at the curb.

Mycroft was lounging in the backseat of the limo, putting his best unaffected face forward when Kora re-joined him.

"Well?"

"Are you familiar with Churchill, sir?"

Thrown, Mycroft frowned.

"Of course. Everyone in the British Government is."

"Then you know that he said: 'Criticism may not be agreeable, but it is necessary. It fulfils the same function as pain in the human body. It calls attention to an unhealthy state of things.'"

"And?" Mycroft, in a moment of rare density, was not following. Kora looked up and stared at the man right in the eye.

"This is an unhealthy state of things, sir. If what you're looking for is absolution from Dr John Watson, you'll be waiting for a while. Possibly even after your brother returns to him."

Mycroft's lips folded in and he nodded gravely.

"Yes, that is what I feared to be the case."

Kora (Calliope, Hera, Gaia, Anthea) dug her BlackBerry out of her coat pocket. The ride back to the office was a silent one.

(LINEBREAK)

Molly Hooper knew how to keep a secret. Oh, she didn't like it – no, it made her feel uncomfortable, like her insides were squirming and not in the 'Sherlock's giving me butterflies' sort of way. But she knew when to keep her mouth shut. It wasn't like she really had anyone to talk to about things, anyway. Just the bodies on the slabs, and they didn't really count. She was still careful about what she said out loud when she spoke to them (she never knew who might be listening in), but for the most part Molly kept very quiet about a whole bunch of things.

When Molly was young, she never told on her brother when he snuck out. Jamie (a great big fifteen) knew that she knew, and when he asked why his little sister wasn't tattling on him, Molly just shrugged.

"I don't really think it's my business," she said in all her nine-year-old wisdom. Jamie had given her a sweet every time he snuck out after that, so Molly knew that her older brother appreciated her silence on the matter.

Molly also knew that her landlady was skiving on her taxes. The mailman was getting on in years and Mrs Hopper looks a bit like Molly Hooper if you squint a bit. Or a lot, like their mailman. So Molly knew about Mrs Hopper cheating on her yearly taxes, but it wasn't really her place to say anything so she didn't. The older woman probably had a very good reason for not paying them properly; it wasn't Molly's place to judge. Two days after Molly had returned her landlady's miss-delivered mail, Mrs Hopper relaxed the 'no pets' rule so Molly could get herself a cat. She didn't even ask for Mrs Hopper to do that – the woman mentioned it all on her own.

"A young pretty thing such as yourself shouldn't be all-alone all the time," the landlady had said one evening when Molly came home from the morgue. "Have you thought about getting a pet, dearie?"

"Oh, uh…" Molly had looked around, not comfortable with the spotlight, especially when it was her not-so-existent social life. "There's a um… a 'no pets' policy on the building Mrs… Mrs Hopper."

"Oh, I'm sure the other tenants won't mind if you get a cat or the like. Nice quiet things, cats are - very self-sufficient. Why don't you and I go down to the shelter in a few days, pick one out for you."

So that's how Molly got Toby, the white and grey kitten she had named after a character from one of her favourite movies (the name Jareth was too strange for the sweet little thing). She felt a bit guilty about it, though. Molly knew secrets, but she also knew that exploiting people was bad.

Kind of like how she knew that Sherlock exploited her crush on him every time he wanted something. It wasn't very nice and it was extremely distracting, but Molly always caved so obviously it worked. If he wanted body parts or organs, all he had to do was vaguely smile once even a little in Molly's direction. If he wanted coffee, he only had to mention of how tired he was and send a sly look her way. The 'under-the-lashes' thing got her every time and it really wasn't fair. This last one, though… that request was a doosey.

Sherlock needed to die and then disappear. He was going to do something dangerous and quite possibly life threatening and he needed Molly to hide the evidence of his survival. It needed to look like he had died. And once he was safely stashed away...

"I need you to keep an eye on John."

"What?"

"John, my doctor. He's… he's my blogger, my doctor, my colleague. John is… he's my _John_ and –"

"Yes, I… I know who John is, sh-Sherlock," she stuttered, trying to ignore the pain in her heart. Sherlock cared about John and that was important; her little crush could wait. "You don't have to… keep repeating yourself."

"John is going to be… distressed by the coming events, Molly. I need to you make sure he's okay. Call, text, stalk if need be. Just don't let him do anything drastic."

And Molly knew – she just _knew_ – that Sherlock would be contacting her for regular updates. Secret keeping Molly was good at; spying, not so much. But that's what Sherlock wanted her to do, and for once it wasn't fetching glass slides or delaying paperwork so he had time to mess about with dead bodies (not… not _that_ way. Just experiments and… oh, don't be gross). Keeping tabs on John wouldn't just be for Sherlock's piece of mind since it might actually help John in the long run. So Molly promised to try.

And after Sherlock performed his magic trick (he wouldn't say it was one, but Molly didn't know what else to call it), she really did try. Again and again and again, until Molly wasn't even sure why she _kept_ trying. John did not want to talk to her. He made this abundantly clear by avoiding her at every turn. She started hanging about the GP John worked at to try to catch him, but he always eluded her. Molly did run into Sarah Sawyer, though – Sarah, who was John's employer and former (kind of almost, if one date counted) girlfriend. Sarah, who was just as concerned about John as Molly was.

So Molly started to meet Sarah for afternoon tea and drinks after work, just two friends getting together and discussing the welfare of a fellow doctor. Sarah was a wealth of information, far more than Mrs Hudson (who could gab a person's ear off with gossip). Sarah told Molly about how tired John looked and how hard he was working. He had moved into this sparse little place on the other side of the Thames, very dreary looking according to Sarah. He wasn't getting difficult to work with – in fact, John was now seeing most of the patients because he was going through them so quickly – and he was always on top of his paperwork. But he still didn't seem quite right. He was drained, his left hand shook sometimes, and he was willingly working himself into the ground. Molly always had so much to tell Sherlock when he called after she saw Sarah.

Sherlock, however, wasn't quite so thrilled.

"'Sarah says this, Sarah says that' – I don't want to know what _Sarah_ says, Molly. Tell me what _John_ says. What is _he_ doing?"

"I don't know!" Molly yelled over the phone, finally fed up with his whingeing. "He won't talk to me! He won't answer my calls or my texts, he doesn't want to meet for coffee or catch up, he always says he's busy. He literally _ran_ in the other direction when he saw me yesterday, Sherlock. The only news about him that I can get is from Mrs Hudson – who is doing just fine, by the way – or Sarah. And she says he's working too much." Molly took a breath and calmed herself. "He's just so… withdrawn lately, Sherlock," she continued softly, gently. "He's not talking to anyone, really… not even that inspector fellow from the Yard – who is also doing just fine, even though Mrs Hudson says he's worried he might be losing his job soon. But John isn't doing well and he misses you terribly. He's not obsessing, I don't think, but he hasn't let it go yet. And it… it's been two months."

Molly heard the consulting detective sigh through the phone line and wished there was something more she could do. Like give him a hug. Or even give John a hug, if that would make Sherlock feel better.

"Still two more months left," Sherlock mumbled from his side. "Less, if I'm right."

"Right about what?"

"Moriarty's right-hand man. I need you to keep your eyes on John until I return, Molly. You've… you've been very good, ah… you've proven yourself invaluable to –"

"Don't Sherlock," she interrupted his rambling. "It's… it's really no trouble. You care for him a great deal and I know he cares for you too. It'll be okay," she added, trying to infuse some hope and cheer into her words.

"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said quietly. "You're a good friend. I'm glad I asked you to watch over him."

It was the highest compliment Molly had ever gotten.

* * *

so there's that. this takes place about two months after RBF and one month before Ch.2. not very chronological at all, huh? thank you to everyone who has fav'd or reviewed the last two chapters. you really have made this more fun than just me spouting off nonsense (as i am wont to do). remember, please review and Believe In Sherlock. :)


	4. Chapter 4

ba. this chapter sits funny in my mouth. maybe because i don't like writing accents and i don't like writing drunk people. i carried it off as neatly as i could, with great big heaps of help from **howlynn** (eastern estuary? hidden brogue? uh...). she helped me shape it up a bit and told me where to add in the British slag that i know nothing about. if the first bit seems wandering and strange, well... drunk people confuse me. that's my only defense. she also helped me further stuffify my Mycroft; the 'teacher wants your best work' bit and the 'nostrils' bit are thanks to her.

if you're looking for a disclaimer, see previous chapter.

* * *

"I don' like bombs, Mrs H," Greg Lestrade mumbled. He was face down at her kitchen table, arms up around his head, three sheets and waiting to sober up before he went home to a very empty flat. Ex-missus had finally moved the last of her things out that evening, one of the many reasons Greg was drinking that night (the rest of them included three very annoying men – one was dead, the other might as well have been, and the last one was a crocodile).

"And why's that, dearie?" Mrs Hudson was only half paying attention. The other half was making the strongest sober-up-cure she knew; it always worked on her little brother, bless his poor rotting liver.

"Well, they make a bloody mess, don't they? Lives lost, property all bolloxed – and then noffin' but paperwork, you know? And they're noisy buggers, ain't they? Flash, bang, and suddenly you're on the groun' and your ears are ringin' – can't hear a damn fing."

Poor drunken lamb.

"Oh yes, detective," Mrs Hudson chirped from the pantry. "I remember when that gas line exploded across the street last year. I had been down the way a bit, you know, and my goodness what a sort of noise that was." Greg grunted.

"'s a whole mess a dummies who learn to defuse 'em, too. Bunch of loony sods – show up, chuffed to Jesus, and smiling. Why on earth would anyone want to _smile_ about a detonated bomb? Okay, so's nice when the Bomb Squad gets 'ere in time and takes care of the bloody fing, but still. You'd have to be some kind of idiot to think: 'Yeah, I wanna get up close an' personal wif dangerous exploding shit when I've grown up.' And Sherlock, oh god, Sherlock bloody Holmes. Man was the biggest kind of bomb there was. Damn near un-diffusible, an'e blew up right in my face."

"Oh detective, you have been in your cups tonight," Mrs Hudson tsk'd and shook her head. "Your metaphors have gone all stretchy."

"Is _not_ stretchy," Greg protested, his dizzy head shooting up from its resting place as Mrs Hudson set down a full glass of mysterious brown goo in front of him. "Is poetic. Sherlock Holmes was The Big Un' and John Watson was the dummy who followed 'im 'round doin' the defusin'. And I had to watch it all happen… couldn't stop it."

"Hard to stop a pair like that, now." Mrs Hudson sat down on the other side of the table and fussed with the plate of biscuits she had put out when the detective had first arrived. "They were messy and loud, but aren't all boys? Every now and then they'd… well, have a domestic and John would go for a walk about, but for the most part they were the most stable pair. Even Mrs Turner's married ones thought so." Oh, she did miss them – even the fighting and yelling and strange smells and her poor wallpaper…

"Sherlock was a great man," Greg grumbled. "Mad as a bag of ferrets, but he was still great! But now he's gone and John is… lil' man, so lost wifout his Big Un'. He won't talk to me, Mrs H, he's so angry. I try," he looked up at her, bloodshot eyes desperate. "I call an' text an' I dropped by his new flat once, an' his work. Noffin'; always busy. Called him in for cases, you know – killer ones, dossy ones. But he just…. Nope. I did wrong and this is what he does for it. Can't even be arsed to go for a pint."

"Well, you've had enough pints for two men this evening, detective," Mrs Hudson sighed. John's grief was no one's business but his own. Maybe it was time to try her hand at a little defusing. "Maybe he doesn't think he needs to, what with you doing all the drinking for him. And in the middle of the week! As for seeing John, well. We've met for afternoon tea sometimes. He won't come here, of course – too many memories – but he seems fine. He talks about the weather, his work, asks after my hip; he's such a good boy. He does seem a bit frayed around the edges, but he misses his partner and it's only been eight weeks after all. Those boys were awfully close. Give the poor lad some more time; he'll come around, inspector." The DI's head started wobbling back and forth in a silent, drunken 'no'.

"No more 'spector, Mrs H. 'm gonna to lose m'job," Greg mumbled, twirling his still-full glass of brown sludge. "Sherlock came an' detonated m'life an' now 'e's gone an'm goin' to lose m'job! Chief Super don't like that I pulled in an 'amateur' – as if Sherlock Holmes was _ever_ anyfing ov'ver than _brilliantly_ right about _every_fing. And I know Chief Dicky wouldn't care so much about John if he hadn't chinned him… Pompus Wanker… John's a proper doctor. Knows 'is shit 'bout… medical shit. But the Chief Super… stupid fat git. They're'll be a ban on invs… investo… on lookin' into Sherlock's old cases soon – big brov'ver Holmes fink's he's bein' all subtle as. But won't come before 'mfired." Greg took a deep shuddering breath, his shaky hand tightening on the cool glass in front of him.

"Shouldn't've let 'em be arrested, Mrs H; neither of'em. I should'a fought it harder. I mean, I texted John – give 'em a warning, you know. Piddled around, gave 'em time to bunk off. But they was still there, Mrs H, and I _had_ to do it then, didn't I? And Sherlock knew – he knew, he understood I had to do my job and all. But it was the worst feeling, like I was betraying him and all they've done for me… for the division. He looked me right in the eyes, Mrs H, and noffin' was the same." Greg's free hand scrubbed at his face, trying to get the crying feeling out of his eyes. He was a man, damn it, and this was his fault; he had no business crying about. But he did want to, really.

"John hates me for it, and I can't even blame 'im. Hell, I hate those bloody yard vultures just the same as he does, but to John… to John Watson, I _am_ one. So now m'wife's moved out an' John blames me an' Sherlock's gone an' I'm going to lose m'job!"

"They wouldn't fire you, detective," Mrs Hudson cooed, reaching across the table to pat one of his hands. Poor drunken, silly lamb. He'd had such a hard time of it. "You're a very _good_ detective, you know. Sherlock always thought so. If he didn't, he wouldn't have helped you so much. If anyone should be fired, it's that Kitty Riley reporter. _Nasty_ little girl." Mrs Hudson shook her head with a sneer. This seemed to cheer the inspector up some.

"Oh she's been sacked," Greg looked up with an impish grin. "Given the boot and slapped with a big lawsuit to match. Happened earlier this week. I been keeping my ear to the ground and good ol' Mycroft 'as finally got everyfing he needs to prove Moriarty's _real_. Richard Brook's been erased and James Moriarty is as real as you er'me. Or was. Bastard's dead."

"Language, detective," Mrs Hudson reprimanded gently. "You drink what's in the glass now, every bit, and tell me exactly what's happening to that poor misguided Riley bitch."

(LINEBREAK)

Kitty Riley was in deep shit.

Sitting in the hallway of the courthouse – the very courthouse where Rich- no, where _Moriarty_ had been put on trial – she tried very desperately to calm down. Deep breaths, head between her knees because she was feeling so nauseous, gripping the sides of the bench so she didn't fall over.

All she had wanted to do was bring truth to the 'Moriarty' case, make Sherlock Holmes seem like an actual human. Get an exclusive interview with the Man Behind the Brain. Was that so bad? And the promotion she had gotten was… it had been what she had wanted her whole life! Lead Reporter, Kitty Riley; no more gossipy human interest pieces for her, absolutely not. She was putting her big-girl-knickers on and dealing with the Real Issues in the world. Kitty was making it, making a name for herself. She'd wanted to go into political journalism since she was a girl, and had majored in investigative journalism to get an edge. Now she was in the thick of things – Prime Minister, people of the Parliament, watch out for Kitty Riley!

Yes, it had been terrible that Sherlock Holmes (fraud, fraud, fraud) had felt so horrible about being found out that he had killed himself. But the news, the Real Issues, the credibility! Kitty's star burned bright and fast as she shot straight up in the ranks. She would have made Editor In Chief before the year was out, she was absolutely certain.

And then… her bright, hot star had burnt out. Oh, how horribly had it! It didn't even explode, except maybe in her face.

She'd received all sorts of threats in the mail after the (so well written, so well _researched_) piece on Holmes, mainly from supporters and fans of John Watson's blog (poor, stupid John Watson, who'd been so easily taken in by a fancy man in a long coat). Both the door to her flat and her car had been vandalised with nasty words in bright yellow paint (the same kind that had been cropping up in London as '_I Believe_' tags); she'd gotten offensive calls left on her ansaphone; someone had planted stink bombs in her mail box _and_ in her dry cleaning. But Kitty knew these were just people who were resistant to being disillusioned; they had been afraid of the truth in what she was saying (that's what her mum had always said whenever she'd gotten a particularly foul response to one of her articles). So one more letter meant nothing to her.

Last Monday, she'd received that one more letter in the mail. It had looked oddly official and it stated in no uncertain terms that Kitty was to publish a formal apology to Sherlock Holmes, the Holmes estate, and to Dr John H. Watson for all the lies she had spread and all the hurt she had caused. The letter said that if she failed to do so, she would be taken to court. Foolishly, Kitty had ignored it. She thought nothing of it at all until this past Monday afternoon.

She had been sacked. Shown a pink slip and the door. Told to collect her things and kindly be on her way. Turn in her press badge at the front desk – they were waiting for her. Kitty had asked why – she was at the top of her game! She hadn't done anything wrong. Paul, her Editor In Chief (she so wanted his job!) handed her a letter, one that looked suspiciously like the one she had received a week ago.

"Came in just this morning," he'd said. "It's a notice that you're being taken to court for slander. And not just for some small article – for the Sherlock Holmes exposé you did. They say they have air-tight evidence that you lied – freely and willingly – to destroy another man, his reputation and lively-hood, and that of his loved ones. We can't have that kind of black mark on our paper and we certainly can't afford that kind of lawsuit." Kitty's jaw had dropped.

"But… but I have research on all that. I have sources – extremely _credible_ sources – backing that whole piece up! They can't do that!" The article was framed in her office for pity's sake; she was practically a living ledged back home. They couldn't _do_ this! Paul had shaken his head.

"They can, and they're going to, and they'll win. I made a few calls to your 'extremely credible sources'; not one of them exists, Kitty. And no one's heard of Richard Brook. The children's show stint was a set-up – recorded in some bloke's basement with crap equipment. Even the jury members at Jim Moriarty's trial are admitting that they were threatened – _by_ Moriarty – to pass a 'not guilty' verdict. Apparently, Moriarty's dead now and the threat's been disposed of. But you let yourself get taken, Kitty, and you said some pretty horrible things. This is a paper – a _real_ newspaper, not a pit of mud to drag people through. Controversy makes the world go 'round, but I cannot have a reporter on my staff that cuts corners like that, and especially not on a story that probably led to one man killing himself. You have to check and recheck and then check again, Kitty; you know that. I will not have this paper in ruins because you don't know how to confirm your sources. And I can't stand behind one of my lead reporters as they go to jail for something like this – we'd never recover. So I'm going to have to let you go."

So now here she was, summoned to appear in court and slapped with charges of slander and libel. She'd barely been able to find a lawyer in time for her court date (only two days after she'd been sacked!) and her lawyer sucked; _Kitty_ was the one doing most of the talking for her side. She had brought in everything she had used for that exposé – every scrap of information she could find. Every interview (paper transcripts and audio recordings), every phone number she'd dialled (most of which she had re-dialled from other phones just to make sure they were actual working numbers), everything she still had on Richard Brook (even the grocery receipts she'd kept when he was staying with her). She had called in every favour she had ever gained and… and she was _still_ going to go to jail. The evidence against her was overwhelming.

Kitty Riley's life was over.

A shiny pair of black leather heels appeared in front of Kitty's feet. She looked up slowly to avoid the blood-rush from her head (and to spare herself from further nausea) and saw a surprisingly pretty woman in a (obviously expensive) black dress, tapping away at her BlackBerry.

"Miss Kitty Riley," the woman said. It didn't sound like she was asking, but rather stating for a fact who Kitty was.

"Yes?"

"Follow me." The woman turned and walked down the hall. Kitty watched her go, frozen in her seat and confused. "If you don't want to go to prison, that is." That got Kitty up out of her seat, snatching up her purse and files, and scurrying after the mysterious woman.

"What… what's going on?" she asked once she caught up. "The trial's only got about three minutes of recess left. I can't really be away long." The woman kept her eyes on her phone (how could she see where she was going?) and continued to lead Kitty through a series of hallways.

"Really," Kitty pressed, "Does this have to do with my trial? I didn't lie – I have proo-"

"Go in," the woman said, stopping in front of a slightly open door.

"What?"

The woman looked up (finally) and smiled at Kitty like she thought the girl stupid.

"Go. In," she enunciated clearly. Then she pointed to the door in front of them. "That door, right there."

"But… why? What's behind it?" The woman rolled her eyes and began typing on her phone again.

"You're the reporter," she said, turning to walk away. "You figure it out."

Kitty watched after her a moment, confused as to what exactly was going on. Eventually, though, her curiosity got the better of her and she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It looked like the office of a very well off, very old lawyer (it was, though Kitty had no way of knowing that – all personal information had been scrubbed for the man's safety). There was dark wood furniture, old law books on built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that surrounded the deep burgundy carpet. The room was dim but the drapes were drawn from the windows and there was a lamp on. The large, black leather chair behind the desk was turned away. An umbrella leaned against the edge of the desk.

"What the hell?" she murmured, still taking in the room. Suddenly, a hand appeared from behind the chair and waved her towards the client seats.

"Do sit, Miss Riley," a very posh male voice said, surprising her. "I believe we have much to discuss."

"What… what's going on?" she asked, lowering herself into a chair. She wasn't afraid – not yet – but certainly cautious. She had every right to be.

"Miss Katherine 'Kitty' Laura Riley," the man continued, "thirty two years of age, born November 6th. Red-blonde hair enhanced with colourant, light green eyes, 9.7 stone. Mother's name: Mary Susan Riley, nee Thompson. Father's name: George Ewen Riley. Siblings: one older sister by three years – Georgette Elisa Riley-Collins; twin brothers five years younger – Thompson Ewen and Samson Gregory Riley. I could go on, but family trees do get tedious. Graduate from the Elizabeth Garrett Anderson Language College in Islington, class of 1996. Not the top of your class, but you did well enough on your A-Levels. Top marks in French, I believe. Madame Williams had wonderful things to say about you. You still live in Islington, is that not correct, Miss Riley?"

"How… how do you know all that?"

"Public record, Miss Riley. Attended City of London University, both Undergraduate and Master's Degree in Newspaper Journalism, graduated class of 2003. Perhaps you should have spent more time on your studies; Ms Waterhouse certainly thinks so. She was most disappointed in you, Miss Riley, when she heard about you being taken to court for your lack of investigative skills."

The chair spun to face Kitty. A grim looking man sat there, cold hawk-like eyes freezing her to her chair. The man (slicked black hair, beaky nose, disappointed expression) was in a grey three-piece suit, black tie in a perfect Windsor-knot, and seemed frighteningly formidable. Not like a street thug, but not someone you'd welcome into your home, either. The way he looked at her made Kitty wonder of he was trying to draw her soul out through her nostrils.

"As I am most sure you have figured out, Miss Riley, I am the one pressing charges against you. As for what you are doing here, well… I am willing to drop the whole case. For a price, of course." Kitty gapped for a moment before finding her tongue again.

"All I did was –"

"Lie, Miss Riley," he cut her off. "All you did was _lie_, and then you profited off those lies while innocent people suffered."

"I didn't tell Sherlock Holmes to jump off that building." Kitty was getting tired of having to repeat that. "He did that himself. If it was because he'd finally gained a conscious –"

"It was because someone was threatening people he cared very much about, Miss Riley, but I am not going to be the one to tell you that story. In fact, you will never get your hands on what led to Sherlock Holmes' final actions – your infantile brain wouldn't be able to comprehend it. However, I will give you all the evidence you need to write a fascinating, completely _honest_ story about a man named James Moriarty – a story that will put you back on the map, as it were – if you do two things."

"I'll not compromise my integrity as a journalist –"

"You already have, Miss Riley, and if you would like to go to prison and miss this sole opportunity to redeem yourself, be my guest."

Kitty blinked; this was getting weirder and weirder.

"Look," she said, trying to be stern but still nervously wringing the strap of her purse, "I don't know who you are. I don't know why you're doing this, but I need to –"

"I am merely a concerned and interested party in regards to the reputations of Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Please understand that if pushed I _will_ win this court case, Miss Riley, and any hearing you try for thereafter. You will go to prison – for a very long time, if I see fit – if you do not do as I say."

"Are you threatening me?" Kitty asked, outraged, wishing she had her recorder with her instead of in the evidence room. The man's face went from disappointed to incensed within seconds.

"I do not know _where_ you think you are, Miss Riley, but you are on trial for slander." The way he said it, it sounded like 'murder'. "I have more evidence than you can twitch your over-powdered nose at and I will win. You will not simply pay a fine for this as others would in smaller cases – I am pushing this to the full extent of the law and you will get put away. That is not a threat; I am merely stating fact. What I am offering is to settle this out of a courtroom. I am not asking for money, either, so put all thoughts of opening your meagre little cheque book out of your mind this instant. The more you annoy me, the more likely I am to leave this room and finish this the way your pitiful lawyer expects me to."

Kitty blanched. So he was serious about all this, then. Well, obviously if he was taking her to court, but he was actually going to push for jail time if she didn't settle. Kitty didn't think that she'd do very well in jail.

"What… what would you want me to do?"

"An apology," the man said, relaxing in his seat and looking vaguely pleased, like he'd won something. "Just as I specified in the letter sent to your home. No less than 600 words, to be sent to every newspaper in London. I want the world to know that you are sorry, Miss Riley. Take out a full page add, make flyers and hand them out on street corners if you have to. Or make a blog." Here, the side of his mouth twitched and Kitty wondered if he was trying to make a joke.

"After that, you will be sent a file containing evidence of Moriarty's existence and the truth of his dealings with Sherlock Holmes." Not everything – he new better than that now. "Upon its arrival, you will write an article retracting everything you have ever said or implied about the fraudulency of Mr Sherlock Holmes, and you will… oh let's say… 'set the record straight'. You will submit it to me for my approval; I will provide instructions later as to how that is to be done. Once I have deemed it ready, _I_ will send along. Again, I want the world to know."

"How… how will the story get out? _The Sun_'s fired me and I don't think any other place will take me now that I've been taken to court for… this."

"Your state of employment or lack thereof is none of my concern, Miss Riley. I certainly didn't tell anyone to fire you. Your apology and the story will spread because I will make it so. How that happens is not information you need to be privy to. If you are as intelligent as your school marks once reflected, perhaps you may be able to save what is left of your pathetic career this way. It does seem to be mutually beneficial, I believe. But teacher wants your best work, Miss Riley." He leaned over the desk again, like a bird of prey zeroing in on lunch. "There will be no opportunities for a… what is the phrase… a 'do-over.' I am afraid my grading system is far harsher than you are used to, and most unforgiving. Do you understand, Miss Riley?" Kitty chewed on the inside of her lip before answering.

"So… so all I have to do is say I'm sorry –"

"Very, _very_ sorry."

"Very, very sorry… and write that article and then… I won't go to jail?"

"In over simplified terms, you are correct Miss Riley. So glad you are capable of following along." The man leaned back again, seemingly bored with the exchange now.

"And you… you probably have a contract or something for this, right? You don't look like someone who would take me at my word."

"Naturally, Miss Riley." He almost sounded surprised.

"Contracts mean negotiating terms, right? I want to be Editor In Chief. I don't care what paper, but I want it. Or I won't do this." She rushed it out all at once, one last grab for the brass ring. The man looked down his nose at her, bewildered, like she suddenly started speaking in a different language.

"You seem to be operating under the assumption that you have a chip to bargain with, Miss Riley. It's almost as if you are _asking_ to be locked away."

Kitty bit her lip and frowned.

"Not Editor In Chief, then?" The man rolled his eyes and gave a dissatisfied huff. This was why he didn't like to deal with the rabble. They had such wretched delusions of grandeur.

"As previously stated, Miss Riley, the state of your employment is none of my concern."

"You know," she burst out, "it's really creepy how you say my name like that. I don't even know what to call you."

"You don't need to call me anything. Even if you had that information, you certainly wouldn't know what to do with it." Mycroft wasn't stupid. He might have sold his brother out to a mass-murdering Irish berk with a reporter on a leash, but he wasn't about to let himself get burnt in the same fire. "Now, do we have a deal, Miss Riley?"

Kitty looked at him for a full minute, eyes squinted as she thought. She didn't want to admit that she was wrong, and she certainly didn't trust this strange man, but she didn't want to go to jail more.

"Where do I sign?"

* * *

so this takes place right before ch.2, in case anyone wanted to follow along. all information about the schools Kitty went to is based off what i could find on their respective websites. those schools really do exist and those people mentioned really do teach those subjects at them. also - Paul, the Editor In Chief of _The Sun_, is named after the Editor In Chief of _The Daily Mail_. also, the term 'ansaphone' means 'answering machine'. i got it from the book _Good Omens_ (Pratchett/Gaiman) and a Snow Patrol song. and on this, i'm not too bothered if it's a regionally-incorrect term; creative license says moo. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock. :)


	5. Chapter 5

so much better! for those of you who have already read and reviewed ch5, i give you the new and SO MUCH BETTER version. this one is much more coherent and canon-compliant! yay! super-duper special thanks to **howlynn** for making me see the light. you're wonderful! any mistakes are mine, though.

* * *

**TO: Blocked Number [Lestrade in need of assistance. John still not answering phone. Suggestions? – MH]**

_TO: Annoyance [Molly Hooper, coroner.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Very well. – MH]**

_TO: Annoyance [Enjoy your cavity drilling, brother dear.]_

(LINEBREAK)

Molly loved going to the Whole Foods near her flat. They always had her favourite foods stocked and the tellers were so nice. They even carried her things out to her car for her. Now how was that for service! Her usual cashier (Deborah, lane four) had missed her the past few months. Molly had been going to another store that was an hour in the wrong direction from her flat and St Bart's. But it had gotten her past John's flat, which was what Sherlock wanted, so she had been willing to make the trip. Not that he ever actually answered the door when she knocked, or looked her in the eye when he couldn't avoid her. It was okay now, though – John had moved back to Baker Street so Molly didn't feel the need to drive through London rush hour traffic just to drive past his dinky flat in Waterloo. Thank goodness for small miracles, right?

As this is her first day off in a month (even the dead need a break), it had been rather slyly suggested to Molly by a not-so-anonymous person (Mycroft) that she take care of her weekly shopping. The elder Holmes was right, of course; her cupboards were rather bare. So Molly found herself paused in front of the frozen foods when someone's trolley bumped into her from behind.

"Oh god," came a low, raspy voice as Molly turned around. "I'm so sorry; trolley got away from me."

"Oh…" Molly gasped, then tried to brush it off with a laugh even though the backs of her heels really hurt. "It's okay. Happens all the time!"

"Well, still…"

Molly looked up and found herself looking at a very familiar looking man. "Greg!"

DI Greg Lestrade's face blanked for a second as he tried to place her. "Molly Hooper?"

She nodded, feeling herself blush a little; she was surprised that he had recognized her away from the harsh lighting of the morgue. "Yeah. How have you been? I… I didn't know you shopped here."

"I don't usually," Lestrade shrugged. "But Mycroft called earlier, said he was stopping by my flat sometime tonight with new information about…"

"About Sherlock's case?" Molly filled in, hesitantly. The man was a touchy subject for John; Molly hadn't seen the DI often enough to know if mentioning Sherlock would be a good thing or not. "I, um… I know Mycroft's been working with you on clearing his brother's name – Mrs Hudson told me he got a ban put on re-opening the cases that um… that _he_ worked on."

"Yeah. So… well, um, I'm doing alright. Not too bad, anyway – still got my job. My wife left me," he admitted then looked surprised, like he hadn't expected those words to come out. "Uh, I mean… The wife and I are getting a divorce. She gets the house, but I get the majority of the custody of the kids which is what I wanted more."

"Oh. That's… that's nice. They'll be living with you, then?"

"Yeah." Lestrade looked really happy about this. Molly found herself admiring the way his eyes lit up when he thought about his kids. "I'll be getting a nanny for when they're not in school, but it'll be good I think."

"That sounds… really lovely, actually." Molly's eyes widened as she realised how that sounded. "I mean, I'm sorry that you're getting a divorce –"

"Nah," Lestrade scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and looked down. "That's not so bad. Most of its just paper work." _'And the ex slinging mud on just about everything,'_ Greg thought, _'but Molly doesn't need to know that. Change the subject, Greg – don't get too down.'_ "Ah, have you heard from John recently?"

"N-No," Molly shook her head. "Not since…"

Not since That Day That No One Wanted To Talk About. Not if they knew (and liked, sort of) Sherlock Holmes, anyway.

"John, um…." Molly stuttered, "John doesn't want to talk to me, I don't think. I mean, I call and text. I've dropped by the GP a few times, you know? But…" she shook her head. "Nothing. I'd, I'd be really worried if not for Mrs Hudson. She sees him from time to time. Well, more _now_ I guess."

Lestrade nodded, looking both pleased and confused. "Yeah, she said he'd moved back in. Odd, isn't it? I mean, it's good that he feels he can go home now. I've been thinking of staging something… a sort of intervention, if only to see how the bloke's doing. It's been about four months since Sherlock…"

Four months since Sherlock Did That Thing That No One Talked About. Ever. Especially if John Watson was in earshot.

John might have moved back into the Baker Street flat, but that did not mean that he was getting better. According to Mrs Hudson – who spoke to both Molly and Lestrade on a regular basis – John just sat in his chair with the curtains drawn closed. Didn't eat much, didn't talk at all if he didn't have to. Mrs Hudson also worried that he wasn't sleeping; she'd hear him moving around the kitchen at all hours of the night, but she never heard the doctor climb the stairs to his room, or even go into Sherlock's. Even Sarah Sawyer had said that John looked more tired recently, like he hadn't been sleeping very well.

Molly secretly felt like John was angry every time he ignored her. She didn't know _why_ he would be angry at her – maybe because she had been the one to examine Sherlock's 'body', being the last one to see him before he was 'buried'; maybe because John had somehow figured out that Sherlock _hadn't_ died and knew she was lying to him and everyone (though Molly had no clue how he could possibly know that). But she felt such ire from him every time he turned and walked away from her, every time he sent her calls to voice mail.

And she hadn't heard from Sherlock in two weeks. This was very much not like him; usually he checked in at least twice a week, three times if he was feeling really antsy. She had sent him a text when John had moved back into Baker Street, but he hadn't responded. She really hoped that meant that he was working hard and not… actually dead this time. Molly liked to think that Mycroft would let her know if that ever happened, but she couldn't be too sure.

"Maybe," Molly started after a moment, "maybe an intervention wouldn't be such a bad thing. I mean, it would be great if John was finally moving on, but…"

"Hard to move on from someone like Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, nodding in agreement.

"Poor John," Molly mumbled to herself. Blast that brilliant, beautiful man; the sooner Sherlock finished… whatever it was he was doing, the quicker John would get back to himself.

'_Change the subject,'_ Greg thought again. '_What's with all the heavy today? Think of something better to talk about.'_ "So… You know dead bodies?"

Molly forced a laugh, not noticing Lestrade silently berating himself. She was just glad to be off the topics of Sherlock and John. "Well, that _is_ part of my job description."

Lestrade, coming back to the conversation, frowned and considered her for a moment. "You know, I've never been quite sure, but… are you a doctor?" Molly gave an awkward shrug and blushed.

"Technically, I guess, but I don't like to say that 'cause I only work with dead people. Proper doctors mostly help people get better; can't get better from dead." She let out another weak laugh, hating that she didn't know how to make a proper joke.

Greg – in the cop's habit of always being aware of his surroundings (mostly, maybe not with grocer trollies) – looked up into a corner in the ceiling and saw the security camera trained on them. He thought about that morning, how Mycroft had told him to come to this grocery store specifically, and he frowned.

"Molly, this might sound a bit off, but… did you get a call from Mycroft today?"

Molly jolted and frowned. "Um… yes. What… why do you ask?"

Lestrade seemed to chew on his words a moment before speaking again.

"I told you how he said he'd be stopping by tonight? Well, all I have is coffee at my place and you know how he gets about his tea. He mentioned this place since it was close to the Met; told me to come on my lunch break."

"He suggested I come to buy my own groceries right around lunch…" Molly was starting to cotton on. "Mycroft is a sneaky bugger," she said softly, not sure how she felt about being manipulated. Again. By another Holmes. Lestrade snorted and gave a nod, even though he didn't seem too surprised.

The DI considered her again and Molly tried not to fidget too much. She didn't like being under scrutiny, even when it was from people she kind of knew in the supermarket.

"Since he probably _did_ set this whole thing up," he finally said, coming to a conclusion, "would you mind... See, I have this case and there's something not quite right about the victim. Would you mind coming down to take a look?"

"Oh…" she shook her head, backing up and bumping into the handlebar of her trolley. "That's… that's not really something I… Sherlock was… or maybe _John_…"

"I tried him three times already, Molly, and he just doesn't answer. Look, we're all stumped down at the Met. I mean... poison, drowning, hanging in a tree… and it's a bloody locked room – how did a tree that size get there in the first place? Anyway, we could use some help, or at least an outside voice. A _professional_ outside voice." He sounded a little bitter about that. "And John's the only other professional I can think of but he's not speaking to me. So would you mind?"

Molly hesitated. This was Sherlock's job, his with John. Was she really allowed to do this sort of thing? And he would so be pissed that he'd missed this one; drowning, poison, hanging, and all in a locked room…. But Lestrade was a good man – she had known him for years, since he was still a Detective Sargent and she had been finishing her Post-Mortem Pathology classes. And Sherlock had jumped off a building for him, and Mrs Hudson and John (mostly John). And the case did sound a bit… _fascinating_. A man hanging from a large tree who had died of drowning or poison rather than strangulation, in a completely locked room! Sherlock would be green that he had missed this. And Mycroft _had_ gone through all this trouble just to set this up. It would be horrible to let all that work go to waste. And the Detective Inspector had these puppy-dog eyes that just… _'Oh, alright.'_

"Um… I'll… I'll have to pay for my groceries first… And Sherlock told me all about Anderson…"

Lestrade smiled and his whole face looked younger when he did that. He really was a handsome man. In a completely 'Not Sherlock' sort of way… kind of a nice way, really.

"Go buy your groceries, Molly. I'll keep Anderson out of your hair."

(LINEBREAK)

_TO: John [Bakery on King Edward. Come now.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Cant. 3more patients before lunch, 7-10after – JW]**

_TO: John [Unacceptable.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Tough nuts. – JW]**

_TO: John [There are no nuts in our flat.]_

_TO: John [Bring cashews.]_

_TO: John [I will come get you if needed.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Get your own nuts. AT WORK – JW]**

_TO: John [I know you are at work.]_

_TO: Molly Hooper [Why wouldn't John want to go to lunch?]_

_**TO: Blocked Number [Sherlock! Where have you been? I was beginning to get worried. – xx Molly]**_

_TO: Molly Hooper [I have been very busy. Now please tell me why John wouldn't leave for lunch.]_

_**TO: Blocked Number [Oh... I don't know. Sarah said he's still working through them even though he's moved back to Baker St. Did you know he moved back? – xx Molly]**_

_TO: Molly Hooper [I'm aware of his change of residence, yes. Thank you, Molly.]_

_TO: John [Been informed that you are still working through your lunch hour. Care to explain?]_

_**TO: John W. [Busy for lunch? Let me know! – xx Molly]**_

_TO: John [Answer me, John.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [If youd just wait I have 1more to see – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [And shouldnt you be getting ready for tonight? – JW]**

_TO: John [Am ready. Trap is set to spring.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Good. Thats… that is very good. Just be careful please – JW]**

_TO: John [I'll have your Browning. It will be fine.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Two words mate, POOL HOUSE. You had it then and it didnt help you at all – JW]**

_TO: John [Point.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Thank you. Ill have 15min after this patient – JW]**

_TO: John [Unacceptable.]_

_TO: Molly Hooper [John likes strawberry jam tarts best. There is a place on King Edward near Bart's.]_

_**TO: Blocked Number [Will do! – xx Molly]**_

**TO: Blocked Number [What on earth is unacceptable this time – JW]**

_TO: John [You will eat.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Yeah for 15min after this patient – JW]**

_**TO: John W. [Might swing by, if that's OK? Have strawberry jam tart with your name on it! – xx Molly]**_

**TO: Blocked Number [I cant believe this. You did not sic Molly on me – JW]**

_TO: John [You pushed me.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Did no such thing. Call her off – JW]**

_TO: John [You didn't bring any lunch with you this morning.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Vending mechns. Canteen. I have options – JW]**

_TO: John [Indeed. Unacceptable ones.]_

_TO: John [I will not have you slowed down because you are digesting that sludge.]_

_TO: John [Health food digests quicker.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Jam tarts doesnt equal healthy – JW]**

_TO: John [Jam tarts are something you'll eat, though. You are getting far too thin, John.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Says the man who wont eat during cases – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [Or at all unless I make you – JW]**

_TO: John [I won't have you collapsing during a case, John. The Work will suffer if you don't take care of your self.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Im not even going to touch that one, you bloody hypocrite – JW]**

_TO: Molly Hooper [John also needs vegetables and protein.]_

_**TO: Blocked Number [I got him a sandwich, too, just in case. Chicken and Mango Chutney! – xx Molly]**_

_**TO: Blocked Number [And tea from that cart you said he likes. Is that okay? – xx Molly]**_

_TO: Molly Hooper [That is very good, Molly. Thank you.]_

_TO: John [You will eat everything Molly brings you.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [YOU will knock it off until I get home tonight – JW]**

_TO: John [Don't be dull. Of course I won't.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [And why not – JW]**

_TO: John [We'd both be bored then.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [The horror – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [Besides, Im at work. Cant be bored at work. – JW]**

_TO: John [You're dealing with ordinary people. Of course you'll be bored.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Maybe if I were you. But Im not – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [And thank god for that, the world couldnt stand another one – JW]**

_TO: John [You flatter me, John.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Not meant to – JW]**

_TO: John [Irrelevant.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Molly just left. Was talking about the case shes helping Lestrade with – JW]**

_TO: John [Adair. Obvious.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Thought that was a locked room case – JW]**

_TO: John [It is. Don't be dull.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [The man was drowned, poisoned, and strung up in a tree. That doesnt sound like a locked room case – JW]**

_TO: John [Precisely.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [You jealous? – JW]**

_TO: John [Of course not. Why would I be jealous; I already know who did it.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [But you dont know how, do you – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [That really gets to you doesnt it - JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [Silence means Im right – JW]**

_TO: John [Eat your lunch, John.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [My compliments to Molly, this is a very good jam tart – JW]**

_TO: John [Sandwich, too, John.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [You eat the sandwich – JW]**

_TO: John [I'm not there and I wouldn't anyway. Digestion slows me down.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [According to you, everything 'slows you down' – JW]**

_TO: John [You don't.]_

_TO: John [I need you in top form for tonight, John, so eat the sandwich Molly brought you like a good boy.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Condesending git – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [*Condescending – JW]**

_TO: John [How kind of you to spellcheck your insults.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Shut up – JW]**

**TO: Molly H [Thanks for the sandwich, tart and tea, Molly. I do appreciate it – JW]**

_**TO: John W. [No problem! If you get a spare moment, this case could really use your help. I know the DI would love to see you again. – xx Molly]**_

**TO: Molly H [Thanks again for the food – JW]**

_TO: John [Don't be rude to Molly.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Molly shouldn't have lied – JW]**

_TO: John [Irrelevant. She was helping me.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [VERY relevant. She hasnt even apologized. Its more than a bit not good – JW]**

_TO: John [I'm not discussing this again.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Fine – JW]**

**TO: Blocked Number [She blushed when she talked about Lestrade – JW]**

_TO: John [Lestrade is male; of course she blushed.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Im male and I dont think she ever blushed about me – JW]**

_TO: John [You jealous?]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Very funny. Shut up – JW]**

_TO: John [Waiting is so dull.]_

_TO: John [I wouldn't be bored if you weren't at work.]_

_TO: John [You should quit your job. The Work will suffer after my return if you don't.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Should not. Need money – JW]**

_TO: John [Money is also dull.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Money pays bills. With patient – JW]**

_TO: John [Mycroft pays our bills. It's the least he can do after everything.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [True. Still with patient – JW]**

_TO: John [Patients are boring, John, and not worth your time.]_

_TO: John [Dead bodies are so much more fun. And interesting.]_

_TO: Molly Hooper [John needs to go home now. Tell Sarah he needs to go home.]_

_**TO: Blocked Number [How close an eye are you keeping on him? Are you back in London? – xx Molly] **_

_**TO: Blocked Number [But he did look kind of tired. I still don't think he's sleeping much. – xx Molly]**_

_**TO: Sarah Sw. [Hey Sarah! John looked really tired when I checked in on him for lunch. Do you think he's okay? – xx Molly]**_

TO: Molly H. [Yeah, he looked a bit done in when he came in this morning. I don't think he's been sleeping well since he moved back to Baker St. Ghosts and all that – Sarah]

TO: Molly H. [I'm gonna tell him to knock off the rest of the day. He's no good to anyone (least of all himself) if he's half dead. – Sarah]

_**TO: Sarah Sw. [That's probably a good idea. Still on for drinkies after work? – xx Molly]**_

TO: Molly H. [Yup! And you can tell me more about that yummy DI you're working with now ;) – Sarah]

_**TO: Blocked Number [All set. Ttyl – xx Molly]**_

_TO: John [Come home at once.]_

_TO: John [I will shoot the walls if you don't.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Youre like a child. Fine, knocking off the rest of the day. Sarah just came in and said she'll take the rest of mine – JW]**

_TO: John [Excellent. Bring large blueberry muffin and cashews.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Thought eating 'slows you down' during a case – JW]**

_TO: John [Technically, case is solved. And I want a blueberry muffin.]_

**TO: Blocked Number [Fine. On my way – JW]**

* * *

is it just me, or does that grocery store part seem so much cleaner? the first one was so bogged down with things that were really just getting in the way of the story. and now there is actually more information about John and Molly, even Lestrade that i knew but didn't know how to add into the last ch5. i hope it comes across as well as i want it to. and we get more in the texting, too. yay! certainly hope it doesn't suck as much as the last ch5. so please review and Believe In Sherlock :)


	6. Chapter 6

in a bit of a rush, as i wanted to get this up before i had to go to work. but as you can see, this is THE LAST CHAPTER for _**The Blonde Man In the Park**_. it's given me quite the headache, as you might imagine. it's written in present tense - which is never my ideal writing choice - so i really hope it doesn't suck. thanks to **howlynn** for telling me to build the tension. hope i did it! and if anyone's looking for a disclaimer, see... i think it's ch3?

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There isn't a lot of light in the flat across from 221 Baker Street. It is midnight and the only light available is coming in from the windows off the street lamps. There is one corner that is completely dark near a closet opposite from a sniper's station at the right-side window – scope and long-range assault rifle standing at the ready, pointing through an opening into the den across the street. The man who sits in that dark corner has his own gun resting over his lap, hand covering the grip, ready and waiting for the sniper to walk in.

So he sits in the dark, hand wrapped around the butt of a 9mm police issued handgun. And he knows its police issued and not military issued because the serial numbers haven't been scrapped off. John's handgun had the numbers filed away, so if ever caught in his possession it would take a while to trace. How John got Lestrade's firearm off him without the DI noticing would be a conversation saved for later. Perhaps for when he isn't waiting in an unheated, dark room.

So he sits in the dark, and he's wrapped in two layers of jumpers because it's bloody cold tonight. And it's weird because summer in London had never been this cold before. John bought him the jumpers because he couldn't have his scarf or coat back yet. He feels strangely bulky because of the layers of wool and cotton and he worries that his movement might be impeded because of it. No, his movement _will_ be impeded; he knows his body well enough to know that. Usually, a thin button down and a suit jacket are all he has to think about, and those at least have a bit of give in them. Two thick jumpers, not so much.

So he sits in the dark with a handgun that isn't John's and in jumpers that won't allow him his usual range of motion but will at least keep him from becoming hypothermic. And he waits. He has been waiting for months – tonight is the night it all will end. Moran The Sniper will aim for John and the man sitting near the closet behind the door in the darkest corner of the room will shoot Moran first. That's the plan he's been coming up with for months. John is supposed to sit in his usual armchair and look mostly sad but sort of happy, possibly while looking at his old blog posts. Moran will sight John through his scope, then the man in the corner will distract Moran from his intended target and then kill him. This is supposed to be a very simple plan.

Here is what happens instead.

Sherlock sits in the dark, mentally fussing over the fact that he decided to wear the stupid, uncomfortable and quite frankly ugly jumpers, armed with a gun that was not the gun he was planning on using. No, he has to use _Lestrade's_ gun, because John snatched his when Sherlock wasn't looking and replaced it with the Detective Inspector's. And it's an outrageous insult because Sherlock didn't notice until he was already in the empty flat. But Sherlock _is_ in the flat across the street from 221B and he's been there since just before sundown and it's past midnight now so it's far too late to go complain to John (which he really, really wants to do). He's stewing over all of this when the door opens slowly.

It's show time.

A man (Lestrade's approximate height, swimmer's physique, military gait) enters the room silently. His in an all black uniform, with a black knit hat covering his head. His clothes are warm yet light-weight and his boots made to sustain all types of conditions. In a far corner of his mind, apart from everything else, Sherlock wishes he hadn't worn these stupid jumpers. He looks like an idiot sitting here, while Moran is the very model of ex-military calm. Even John would look less like of an idiot, and he always wore jumpers.

Moran's trapezius, deltoids and latissimus dorsi muscles are all over developed, pointing to a wide and varied range of self-defence skills. But while his body may be trained for a physical assault, Moran's specialty lies with the long-range rifle and scope pointed into the living room of 221B. The man walks over to that scope and bends to check it, leaving his back exposed to Sherlock. He fiddles with the viewfinder and makes a satisfied sound in the back of his throat. Sherlock determines that Moran must be seeing John in the living room of 221B. Sighting the doctor, putting him in the middle of the crosshairs. Something in Sherlock's chest twits at the thought of it (isn't that why he left in the first place?) but it's necessary.

In the dark, Moran stands up, his form silhouetted against the window.

"You're not as subtle as you think, Holmes," the ex-colonel says, still watching the flat across the street. His voice is smoother than Sherlock expected. "Knew you were here before I even got to this floor." It's part of the game – the mocking and 'guess what you didn't know I knew' – all part of the posturing, and Sherlock had factored it into their exchange. Sherlock is a master of the game.

"Then you know why I'm here."

Moran chuckles, a dark sound in a dark room, and Sherlock sees his shoulders move so he can put his hands in the pockets of his black fatigue trousers.

"Because you're a stupid man."

'_Misdirect, confuse – throw him off to establish the upper hand of the conversation.'_ "No, but I am beginning to rethink some things."

"Like coming here? Like not dying when you should've?"

"Not exactly." Sherlock gives a sigh of feigned discontent. "I've made some poor fashion decisions in my life time."

"Poor decisions in general," Moran corrects, undeterred. Sherlock begins to suspect that Moran isn't as good at this game as Moriarty was. "Won't be making too many more, though. Not you, or your little doctor pet." Suspicion confirmed; mildly disappointing, that.

"Mmm, not a pet."

Moran scoffs and shakes his head but still doesn't turn. "Says you. He looks awful, you know. Nah, of course you know. Been keeping an eye on your little guard dog, you have. But so have I. And do you know what I've seen?"

Sherlock takes in a slow breath, loud enough for Moran to hear him and know he's bored. It's a calculated bored, but it's also kind of a true bored; villainous banter _really_ isn't Moran's strong suit. "Astound me with your brilliance."

"I see a broken toy. Like one of them little plastic solider men, all bent and torn apart. Little boys like you should know better than to break your toys."

"Dull," Sherlock sniffed. "Moriarty was better at this. Good show, though; you get an 'E' for 'effort'. No gold star to send home to mummy, I'm afraid."

"Would I get an 'I' for 'inventive'? The whole Adair murder must have you spinning on your ear." Moran doesn't sound upset, not by Sherlock's jabs or at the mention of his late-employer. Sherlock isn't too sure what that means, but it isn't important.

"The interesting ones are the easiest to solve. I only heard of it and I knew it was you immediately."

"Hmm." The black shape of Moran's head bobs up and down. He turns to face Sherlock now, his dark eyes glittering in a wide face. Sherlock and just make out his features in the half-light. "Who is going to solve your murder, though? Because I _am_ going to kill you – finish what the headman couldn't – and your little pet will soon be joining you. He's just sitting there, you know… your _John_, the good doctor. Looking up things on his laptop, probably updating that stupid blog of his. Not knowing at all that he's going to die tonight." Moran is showing his hand, whether he knows it or not; he has not been keeping a close eye on John. If he had, he'd know that John had abandoned his blog months ago. "Now, we could draw this out more but I think we both know how this is going to end. Are you going to fight me proper?"

Sherlock takes a slow breath in, steadying him self. His hand tightens around the gun in his lap, his muscles coiled and set to spring. The end is neigh. "I could just shoot you."

"No you couldn't." Moran chuckles again. "If you could, you would've done already."

"I have a gun." Sherlock can't help the petulant tone of voice, gesturing lazily with the weapon in his hand. Moran's answering grin is mocking, infuriating.

"Think you're a big boy, then? Let me guess, 9mm L9A1? Standard military issue sidearm. Serial numbers filed off so they can't find your pet. Bet you haven't even taken the safety off."

And Sherlock hadn't, because of all the ways he knew how to kill a man using a gun (while efficient) was his least favourite. He didn't like doing it that way, but he was prepared to do so… mostly. Sherlock's thumb slides against the yellow safety catch, caressing it almost as he prepares to remove it and shoot Moran.

But then things go off script; Sherlock (and, it seems, Moran) had not anticipated the door opening again.

"Sebastian Moran." The voice is John's. John, who is supposed to be in the living room across the street. John, who is supposed to stay out of harm's way. John, who is supposed to let Sherlock take care of this _One. Last. Thing._

The sniper turns to the door and in the orange light coming from the hallway Sherlock can see Moran's face widen with shock. Brown eyes, pale stubble (matching the golden brush found under the hat), tanned skin, all taut with surprise.

Then there's a loud bang and a hole between Moran's eyes. One red drip; Moran falls. Sherlock's mind stutters to a stop, then starts whirling like an overheated laptop.

"What?" is Sherlock's rather unintelligent reply. He looks to the open doorway where John stands watching Moran's unmoving body. His arms are behind his back, already tucking the gun back into the waist of his denims, hiding the grip by flipping the hem of his jumper (the soft oatmeal one Sherlock likes) over it. John shrugs. His face is blank, not with the careful disguise of emotion but rather the lack of it. He doesn't feel anything over this death, except perhaps grateful that it's all over now.

"Well, I knew you'd make him talk about things, and the longer he was alive the higher the chance that he'd…"

Sherlock lets the sentence hang a moment before catching John's meaning. His brain is still trying to catch up, which is not something he's used to. It's like wearing too many jumpers at once.

"Before he'd finish Moriarty's business."

John's head bobs in a jerky sort of nod. "Yeah. Couldn't let that happen."

"That's why you took your gun and left me Lestrade's." John takes a deep breath and nods again.

"Yup. I'd apologize but… well. You okay?" Sherlock, however, is still strangely having trouble processing some things.

"You shot Sebastian Moran." He can't seem to get much passed that point.

"Um…" John looks at Sherlock, face unsure in the half-light. "Does seem to be the case. You alright? He didn't touch you, did he?"

"No, no," Sherlock shakes his head and stands. "But… _I_ was going to shoot Sebastian Moran." That had been the plan, after all. The very well thought out and carefully planned _plan_ that Sherlock had come up with and John had so brilliantly ruined. John blinks and frowns.

"Seriously? You're going to whinge because I stole your thunder?"

The consulting detective tsk's and rolls his eyes. John can be so dense. "Don't be dull, John. How did you get here?"

"Walked across the street, like any normal bloke would." Sometimes John wonders how Sherlock had ever survived without him. Honestly, the things that went over the man's head.

"Glad to know you haven't suddenly sprouted invisible wings," Sherlock rolled his eyes again, ignoring the voice in his head that sounds like Mummy saying: _'Do that often enough, Sherlock dear, and they'll get stuck.'_ "But how were you _here_ when Moran saw you _there_?"

John blinks, understanding dawning over his features. "Oh… well, St. Bart's got cadavers for the medical students to study, right? Well, Molly said that they just got one in that looked a bit like me. She thought it was weird; I thought it was convenient. I got Mike to help me steal it out the back. I had to tell him about you not being… well, he wouldn't help if I didn't explain. Took it fairly well, really. We can keep it if you like, so you can use it for your self."

Sherlock thinks for a moment about having his very own full dead body to mess with, but then remembers that it would look like John and suddenly it isn't so appealing any more.

"No. Parts are more my style but I appreciate the gesture. Speaking of gestures, what made you think that barging in here –"

John cuts him off quick with a light glare and the slightly annoyed, puckery-type face he adopts when he thinks Sherlock is being oblivious. "Oh, don't even start. The sooner Moran was out, the sooner you could come home." It really is that simple for John – all he wants is his best friend to come home. That was it, has been since this whole debacle began. Then John gets a good look at said best friend and he frowns. "And what the hell are you wearing?"

Sherlock looks down at himself, face screwed up in disgust. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, however…"

"Yeah – _however_. Lets get back across the street and you can get some of your own clothes on again. I know you've been stashing them back in your room."

"I haven't been doing that. How could you tell?"

John looks uncomfortable for a moment but covers it quickly. "That flat has haunted me for about a month, over all. I think I'd know when someone was trying to sneak in."

"I have not been _sneaking in_. That's my flat – I have a key."

"Well what was it you said about dust, before the Hansel and Gretel case? Dust is eloquent, right? Well, you've been 'disturbing the dust.'" Sherlock looks smug, proud of his blogger. He has in fact been altering the dust patterns in their home.

"Good, John; very good. Finally employing my methods."

John snorts as he opens the front door for his friend. "That and you sound like an elephant on the stairs."

"I do not." Sherlock sounds mildly affronted but it's hiding a smile. John can hear it so he smiles back.

"Yeah you do – a big frumpy elephant. Who wears too many jumpers at once."

"I've never sounded like an elephant in my life, much less a frumpy one."

"Well, you're frumpy now. And you sure fooled Mrs Hudson; she's the one who said it."

"Mrs Hudson –"

"Still thinks you're dead, by the way, so _you_ get to tell her otherwise. And Lestrade and… well, Mycroft probably already knows, but anyone else is all on you."

"Then you have to apologize to Molly for being rude."

"You're rude to Molly all the time!"

"Irrelevant." The street is dark enough for Sherlock to feel comfortable crossing without cover. The jumpers provide enough of a disguise anyway. John was right – they really are frumpy on him. "None of this was Molly's fault and you have been quite unpleasant to her since I've revealed myself to you."

"Sounds dirty when you say it like that, Sherlock."

"John."

John huffs and throws one hand up in aggravation, the other fishing in his front pockets for his key to their flat. "Fine, fine! I'll tell Molly I'm sorry; you tell the rest you're alive. I'll even patch you up after you see Lestrade. Lord knows you'll need it."

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and there we have it. i really hope i did these guys justice - they're my new favs. and i also hope you all enjoyed it. and i most certainly hope you review, even if it's to tell me what went wrong. of course, if that's the road you choose to take i only ask that you give useful criticism and not "WHOO U SUK!" a why would be helpful, even if it's badly misspelled. anyway, please review and Believe In Sherlock! :)


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